ll the diverted passion of her nature), Aimee von Erkel,
who was persistent, incisive, and so alarmed at the prospect of all the
men in the world being killed, that she would have hastened peace on any
terms; Princess Starnwoerth, a Socialist and idealist, a brilliant and
persuasive speaker, to whom war was the ultimate horror; Johanna Stueck,
whose revolt had been deep and bitter long before the war and who was
one of Gisela's fervent disciples and aides--these and six others were
sent on one pretense or another into the various States of Germany--the
kingdoms, principalities, grand duchies, duchies, and "free towns"--to
bear Gisela's personal message and select the proper leaders.

Gisela went at once to Berlin and had a long interview with Mariette,
who was ripe for revolution: her lover had been killed and her husband
had not. Mariette was not of the type that sorrow and loss ennoble. She
was still a handsome woman, particularly in her uniform, but the pink
and white cheeks that once had covered her harsh bones were sunken and
sallow. Her mouth was like a narrow bar of iron. Her eyes were half
closed as if to hide the cold and deadly flame that never flickered;
even her nostrils were rigid. All her hard and sensual nature, devoid of
tenderness, but dissolved with sentimentality while the man who had
conquered her had lived, she had centered on her lover, and with his
death she was a tool to Gisela's hand to wreak vengeance upon the powers
that had sent him out of the world.

"Leave it to me," she said grimly. "There are not only the women in the
towns where I have been stationed these many years, but, here in Berlin,
the wives of men whose money is financing this war: men who permitted
the war because they hoped for infinite riches but are now terrified
that they will not have a pfennig if the war goes on much longer. They
dare not rebel, for they would be shot, and their fortunes be
confiscated: their banks, industries, shops, run by cowed minor
officials. But the women--I can count on many of them. Even if their
husbands suspected, they would wink at it, willing that the women should
take the risk and they reap the benefit. God! How they hate the
war--every woman I know. Leave this part of Germany to me, and be
prepared for Schrecklichkeit. There will be no mercy, no politics, in
this revolution--merely one end in view. The Russians are babies but we
are not. 'Huns' shall cease to be a term of opprobrium, for fema